


A Twist of the Knife

by dragonmactir



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Paradox Origins, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-05 10:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11576475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonmactir/pseuds/dragonmactir
Summary: In a strange alternate universe, something has gone awry.  Can it be fixed before the very fabric of time and space tears itself asunder?  Probably not by this band of happy honyocks.  Co-created with The Scribbly Knave of fanfiction.net and Connor Neckel of facebook, who helped me come up with the premise and brainstorm names for Iron Bull.





	1. Wouldn't Ewe Like to Know?

Word went out, not just across Ferelden but across Thedas itself.  The Queen of Ferelden wanted warriors, rogues, mages -- anyone who felt confident enough in their battle skills to put them to the test against the best of the best -- to come to Ferelden.  Ferelden wasn’t highly respected in Thedas, despite being construed as the “Holy Land” of the prophetess Andraste’s birth, but still, many answered the call, drawn by the promise of a great test of their abilities and potential rewards to follow.  Some of them didn’t even stop to wonder just why exactly Ferelden wanted them so badly.

 

They were gathered by the group in the Denerim coliseum and addressed by the Queen herself.  She stood above them in the Royal Box, resplendent in golden taffeta, with her upbraided yellow hair shining in the sun underneath her sparkling crown, her famous affable smile shining down with all the brilliance of each jewel thereupon, she had them in the palm of her hand before she ever said a word.

 

“Warriors, mages, mercenaries, fighters of every stripe.  You have gathered here today in good faith to put your skills to the test against the finest in all the land.  If any among you have the skill to best the finest, you shall be greatly rewarded.  As for the rest, the best of you will be chosen for a mission of great import for sake of our entire world.  You will be free to turn this mission down if you so choose and go on your way in the same good faith that you arrived.”

 

A lone warrior clad in silverite armor walked out of one of the opponents dugouts.  They wore no helmet, and had long, dark hair.  A rampant yellow wyvern was painted on the shield they bore.

 

“This, gentlemen and ladies, is the finest,” Her Majesty said, smiling all the more affably as she gestured to the warrior.  “Let the battle of worth begin.”

 

The milling warriors stood in mass confusion for a moment, but a few at the front of the group quickly got the message and attacked the lone warrior, who just as swiftly drew sword and shield and defended.  And just as swiftly as _that_ disarmed and disabled his opponents.  _“Come and get me, if you dare!”_ the warrior shouted, in a voice that crashed over the arena like a tidal wave.

 

“Don’t be shy, my warriors!  You’ll soon find that in this regard, my dear friend is not,” Her Majesty said.

 

They all couldn’t attack at once, they were too far spread to even see him, but they were able to attack in large groups, ten or more at once, warriors with swords and shields, warriors with greataxes, warriors with hammers, mages with spells of fire and ice, and quick-stepping rogues attacked from all directions with daggers and dual-blades and bows and arrows.  It didn’t seem to matter.  The warrior in cumbersome armor treated them all the same, as pitiful opponents to be swiftly dispatched without mercy or apparently even much effort, even those who were able to cast their attacks from a distance.  But surely there was a limit to how long he could keep it up against so many opponents.

 

When the crowd of opponents was considerably thinned out, a giant stepped forward, a massive qunari woman with an impressive rack (and quite a set of horns, too).  She wore trousers and an upper body harness and nothing more, had an eye patch and was covered in scars, and was incredibly muscular for a woman, although a slight abdominal pudge gave voice to her introduction to fine Orlesian cuisine of recent years.  She walked up to the melee casually with her traditional qunari-style axe balanced on her shoulder, then squared off and swung it.  The warrior was barely in time to guard against it, and the blow rang against his shield with force enough to break his arm beneath it.  It didn’t seem to faze him, though, for he pushed back immediately and disarmed two other opponents with his sword before taking a swing at the qunari, who defended expertly and with a certain showman-like flourish that the warrior lacked or never bothered with.

 

A mage cast a fireball at the warrior’s head.  He defended with his shield and charged through the crowd and knocked the mage out with the pommel of his sword.  The qunari took the opportunity to advance from the rear and swing again.  The warrior turned just in time to catch the blow on his sword.  He swept out with his shield to knock down three other attackers and spun underneath his own blade to knock out two more coming in on his other side.  With the field cleared, he was able to turn his full attention to the qunari.

 

The qunari grinned.  “You’re good, human.  Took on an army’s worth of soldiers, all by yourself.  But you haven’t faced Ben Hassrath before now.  I’ been takin’ it _easy_ on you.  Now the gloves come off.”

 

The warrior’s narrow, belligerent features drew into a most impressive snarl.  “If you think you’ve got what it takes, heathen, then by all means, bring it on.  I’ve seen more frightening things than you in my own mirror.”

 

The qunari chuckled deep in her throat.  “You know?  Somehow I don’t doubt that.  Let’s start this dance, shall we?  You leadin’, Messer?”

 

“You’re taller.  It’d probably look better if you led.”

 

“But, uh… you’re the man.”

 

“Who said I was a man?” the warrior said, and spun out from under the blade and dashed in to lay the side of his -- or was it hers? -- across the qunari’s ribs hard and fast.  The qunari leaped away and spun her axe, laughing.

 

“Dayum.  You are good.  And… you’re a woman?  I have to say I didn’t see that from where I was standing.  Or from here, either, really,” she said.

 

“I know.  It isn’t easy to see when I’m in my armor.  I stripped this stuff off a man after a battle, had it remade to fit me, but never had _tits_ hammered into it.  My _face_ does nothing to reveal my gender.”

 

“Not in a battle.  How did a human ever learn to fight like you do?”

 

“The _hard_ way.  Now quit flapping your lips and _fight_ me.”

 

“First blood was yours.  Guess I’d really better pick it up.”

 

The qunari executed a series of spin maneuvers, bringing her axe down hard each time, and each time the warrior was either not there when it landed or was able to defend.  “You know, you’d make good Ben Hassrath,” the qunari said.  “But I suspect you’re regular military all the way.  The Qun doesn’t let women in the military.”

 

“Too bad for the Qun, then,” the warrior said, and charged with her shield up.  The qunari braced, and warrior struck her like a battering ram.  Despite her greater size, she was knocked off her feet.  The warrior fell as well, but recovered quicker.  She put the point of her sword at the qunari’s throat before she could get up off the ground.  The qunari smiled.

 

“Well done.  I guess you really are what Golden Lady says you are,” she said.

 

“You’re damned straight,” the warrior said, “but you’re not so bad yourself, for a foreigner.  Just about what we’re looking for, in fact, except for that whole ‘government spy’ issue.”

 

“You know what the Ben Hassrath are.”

 

“I keep my eyes open and my ears perked.  What I’d like to know is why you basically _told_ me what you are,” the warrior said, not moving the point of her sword so much as a fraction.

 

The qunari shrugged.  “I’m not spying on Ferelden.  I don’t see any purpose in hiding my nature from you.”

 

“Who are you spying on?” the warrior asked.

 

“The Powers That Be sent me to Orlais a few years back, to pose as a Tal-Vashoth mercenary captain and send reports, but within that role I have a lot of freedom to pick and choose what I do.  If this ‘mission’ of your Queen’s really does affect the safety of the entire world, I’ll go along if you want me.  For the safety of the Qun.”

 

“So you spy on Orlais.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Not Ferelden.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The warrior sheathed her sword and stood up straight and proud.  She faced the Queen.  “I’ll work with the rosters and you’ll have my recommendations within the hour, my friend,” she said, and bowed slightly at the waist.

 

“Very good, my friend.  I will leave you to it.  And well done as usual.”  The Queen’s smile shone down like the sunshine itself and then she waved to the audience, said her royal goodbyes, and was escorted by her guards out of the box and out of the arena.  The warrior left as well, and all the other warriors, conscious and unconscious, were leaving or being carried out by guards or medics, so apparently it was the qunari’s time to leave as well.  She didn’t know if she’d been chosen or not, or how they would contact her if they did choose her, but one thing she did know, she stuck out in Denerim.  If they wanted to find her, they would.

 

She stopped by the coliseum concession stand on the way out for an ale and some questions.  “Saw the fight.  You’re pretty good.  What can I do for you?” the fellow manning the kegs asked.

 

“That woman that fought us all off.  Who was she?” she asked, after a deep swallow.

 

The man gave her a strange look.  _“That_ was Loghaina Mac Tir.  You can’t tell me you haven’t heard the name.”

 

“Once or twice, maybe, used as an epithet by angry Orlesians.  Who is she?”

 

The bartender nodded.  “Yes, Orlesians _would_ curse her name.  It was by her brilliance and her blade that our nation is free of their Empire today.  Queen Marica gave her the Teyrnir of Gwaren as reward for her services during the Rebellion.  She went from nothing to High Nobility.  She stands for everything the _true_ blood of Ferelden can accomplish.  She has saved Her Majesty’s life on countless occasions.  They are the best of friends.  They share a bond closer than family.”

 

“Marica.  Was that Golden Lady?”

 

The bartender gave her another strange look.  “Yes.  What rock did you crawl out from under?”

 

“A _really_ big one,” the qunari said, and grinned a particularly ferocious grin.  She downed the rest of her drink and left.  She wandered the city for a time without any particular destination with her axe balanced on her shoulder, just memorizing the streets and alleys, and then made her way unerringly toward the Gnawed Noble tavern in the High Market.  She didn’t make it.

 

“Where do you think _you’re_ going, heathen?”  The coarse, brash voice was unmistakable.  The warrior was back.  The qunari turned.

 

“I was just heading to the tavern for a drink.  Care to join me, your Ladyship?  Or are you too big to drink with the little people?”

 

The warrior pulled a grimace.  “I don’t drink at the _Gnawed Noble_.  I don’t need ale and pretension.  Come with me.  I know a better place where the drinks are stronger and if it smells like piss and vomit, at least it doesn’t stink of overprivilege.”

 

“Sounds like my kind of place.  Lead on.”

 

“You really go by the name ‘The Iron Ewe?’”

 

“Yeah.  What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

_“What?”_

 

“Doesn’t seem very tough somehow.  “I would’ve thought you’d go by something more like… ‘Iron Lioness’ or… ‘Iron Dragon.’  Something tougher.”

 

“Hey.  Rams kick ass.  They have horns, they like to hit things.  _I_ have horns and like to hit things.  It fits.”

 

“Then why didn’t you call yourself ‘The Iron Ram?’”

 

“Because rams have testicles.  I don’t.”

 

“You know, certain varieties of mountain goats are called rams.  Even the ewes.  You could technically call yourself Iron Ram, testicles or no.”

 

“Don’t go getting technical on me, now.  Besides, my mercenary company is called the Rams.  I don’t want to be ‘The Iron Ram’ in charge of ‘The Rams.’  Doesn’t sound right.  I’m the Ewe in charge of the Rams.  It _works.”_

 

“If you say so.  If you weren’t so hung up on gender bias, you could’ve been ‘The Iron Bull’ fronting something like… _‘The Chargers,’_ but too late now, I suppose.”  The Ewe grumbled under her breath most of the way to the dockside tavern the warrior led her to.

 

“Ah, the Fishwife’s Cloister.  Shoddiest dive this side of Denerim, which is saying something, believe me,” the warrior said, when they reached the place.  “But it’s got the best ‘shine.  Real Wyvern’s Ridge, straight from Gwaren, but you didn’t hear that from me.  The stuff is illegal.  Too many people have died from drinking it.”

 

“Oo, sounds like a challenge,” the Ewe said.

 

“Not so much any longer.  I made them stop selling the foreshot, which is what was killing people.  But it’s still a damn stiff drink.  Goes down like a hurricane, but it tastes like heaven.”

 

“Sounds like my kind of swill.”

 

They went inside and bellied up to the bar.  The bartender nodded to the warrior.  “Afternoon, Teyrna.  The usual?”

 

“Yes, and one for my new ‘friend.’”  The bartender nodded and swiftly poured two large tin tankards from an unlabeled bottle of clear fluid.  He passed them down the bar to his customers and the warrior caught them both and past one to the Ewe.

 

“So, you’re a real bigshot around here, eh?” the Ewe said, and tipped back her tankard for the first deep swig.  The liquid went down hot and hard, like the best of her favorite drinks, and she started to cough.  “Ah, that _is_ good swill,” she said when she had her breath again.

 

“Told you,” the warrior said, and took her own deep swig.  She slammed the tankard down.  “As for me, you can’t believe all of what you hear.”

 

“I’ve _heard_ you’re tops with Her Royal Majesty.”

 

“Depends on your definition of ‘tops,’ I suppose, but we’re fairly close.  Most of the time.  Not always by my preference.”

 

“The _Queen_ ain’t good enough for ya?”

 

“She gets me into a _load_ of trouble.”

 

“You seem like you can handle it.”

 

“I can handle it.  That doesn’t mean I _want_ it.  Kind of like this damned title, and all the bloody hell that comes along with it.  I never asked to get mixed up with royalty and politics.”

 

“Do you always wear the armor?”

 

“I don’t sleep in it.  Always.”

 

“You know… my Lieutenant in the Rams is a fella from Tevinter.  He’s Aqun’athlok.  He lives his life as a woman.”

 

“Good for him, or… _her._ What’s your point?”

 

“Just wondering.”

 

“Just wondering if I wished I were a man?  Just because I don’t have tits on my chestpiece doesn’t mean I wish I had a dick in my codpiece.”

 

“It’s just something I wondered.  You’re kind of rough and rugged for a woman, after all, and the men’s armor _is_ kind of a giveaway for that kind of thing.  But apparently you’re just cheap, or you’re into trophies.”

 

“A little of both.  I typically collect the weapons of fallen foes.  I’ve got quite the collection.  Couldn’t quite resist this armor, though.  It was the only thing I ever saw that was nearly my size.”

 

“Yeah, you are a _big_ bitch, for a human.”

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 

“So, did I make the cut today, or what?” The Ewe asked.

 

“Of course you did.  The best of the _very_ few.  I’m hopeful that there’s a few more like you in the group I take on tomorrow.”

 

“Did you get other recruits in days past?”

 

“Some.”

 

“What’s this big mission of the Queen’s?”

 

“Wouldn’t tell you even if I really understood it.”

 

“Shouldn’t I be told?  I’m going to be in on it, after all.”

 

“You’ll be briefed.”

 

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

 

“Don’t have much to say.”

 

“How about another round?”

 

“Now _that_ I can say yes to.”

 

Silence spun out between them for a few long moments, but The Ewe couldn’t let that last.  “So.  Teyrna.  What does _that_ mean, exactly?”

 

“Headaches.”

 

The Ewe threw back her head and laughed.  “You’re quick, I’ll give you that.  Dry as toast, but quick.  Come on, though, what does it mean?  I’m new to Ferelden.”

 

“I oversee the southern half of the country.  Teyrna Brycia Cousland oversees the northern half.  We’re the closest advisors of the Queen herself.”

 

“So… Ferelden is a Matriarchy?”

 

“No, a simply Monarchy with a _nominally_ -democratic Aristocracy.  It’s accidental that the top three people in the nation right now happen to be female.  Actually, a surprising number of the top aristocracy happen to be female at the current time.  We don’t worry too much about gender in our heirs, but still, it is a little odd.”

 

“You got kids?”

 

The woman paused.  “I have a son.”

 

“I kinda have a hard time picturing you married.”

 

“I do my duty by my nation.”

 

“Took one for the home team, eh?”

 

“Yes.  Well, the advantage to having all this unaccustomed wealth is that at least I could hire a wet nurse.  I might have had to sleep with someone I didn’t love and carry a baby to term, but at least I didn’t have to have the kid sucking on my tits.”

 

The Ewe snorted up some of her drink as she was swallowing.  “Not the bonding-mother type, eh?”

 

“My son understands me.”

 

“You like the brat?”

 

“He’s a fine young man.”

 

“He’ll make a good Teyrn?”

 

“He’s bound for other things.”

 

“What kind of things?”

 

“That’s _his_ business.”

 

“Is it?  Or is it _yours?”_

 

“Hmph.  All right.  Let’s say it’s _Queen’s_ business.”

 

“How far into the Queen’s business does a Teyrna get?  You said she gets you into a lot of trouble.”

 

“Too far.  I’m not just her Teyrna, I’m her General and her Right Hand.”

 

The Ewe nodded.  “You’re like her Arishok.  I can see that.  You wouldn’t be allowed to be Arishok in Par Vollen, but I don’t see that stopping you.  You’d roll into the country and set yourself up in a matter of hours, and everybody would just fall in line.”

 

“Arishok is a good thing?”

 

“Head of the military.  Less like General and more like… one-third of a three-headed King.  Not exactly, but… that gives you an idea of the kind of power we’re talking.”

 

“The Arishok has three heads?” Loghaina asked, pulling a face.

 

 _“No._ There’s three heads to our government: Arishok, Ariqun, Arigena.  They each play a different role in making sure the whole works the way it should.”

 

“Oh, I was gonna say.  I mean, you qunari look weird, it’s true, but three heads, that’s a whole other level.”

 

“How often do you get laid?” The Ewe asked, with a sky-high elevation of her one visible eyebrow.

 

“Not frequently.  My husband only did it the once, and now he’s dead.”

 

“Did you kill him?”

 

“Alas, no.  He died of _natural_ causes.”

 

The Ewe downed the remainder of her second tankard and slammed it down.  “You need a man, Teyrna.  Or a woman, if you’d prefer.  It’s a hell of a release of tension.”

 

“Thanks for the advice, but I think I’ll go on as I’ve been.  And call me Loghaina.”

 

“You got something against sex?”

 

“Sweaty, slippery, filthy, humiliating, painful, and most of all, involving two bodies _touching_ … no.  No, I have nothing against sex.”

 

“Hmm.  Yeah, somehow I kind of think you do.”

 

“I don’t like people very much, men or women, of any race or creed.”

 

“That’s kind of strange, because everything I’ve heard about you today just says how selfless and giving you are.  People really seem to like you around here.”

 

“Ferelden doesn’t know me very well.”

 

“You’ve been nice enough to me.  Of course, you’re probably trying to work me over, find out whether I’ve got a spy network in place here in Ferelden.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“If you don’t like people, why did you risk your life to set Ferelden free from the Orlesians?” The Ewe asked pointedly.

 

“Because _I_ wanted to be free.  When you want something out of life, you have to reach for it.  You can’t sit on your ass and wait around hoping it will come to you.  I also kind of got roped into the whole mess against my will.”

 

“How did that happen?” The Ewe asked.

 

“I kind of _accidentally_ saved a damsel in distress who turned out to be a princess.  My life has been a shit hole of the Void since then.”

 

The Ewe pounced.  “Saved a damsel in distress!  You _do_ like people!”

 

“So I helped someone!  You can’t make a case for me being fucking _Andraste_ from one Good Samaritan moment!” Loghaina said, slamming her fist down on the bar.  “Besides, she was running from the bedamned Orlesians.  I’d have done pretty much anything to put one over on the fucking Orlesians.”

 

“What’s so bad about the Orlesians?” The Ewe asked.  “I mean, they’re pompous as all get-out, and they really need to call time on the frills and codpieces, but in the years I’ve spent spying on them, they don’t seem all _that_ bad.”

 

“Which Orlesians are you spying on, the nobility or the common folk?” Loghaina asked.  She was grinding her teeth.

 

“Well, I’m spying on the nobility, of course, but I hang out most of the time with the common folk.”

 

“There’s your problem.  You’re not seeing the true face of the Aristocracy.  They believe themselves chosen by the Maker.  They believe that they are allowed free rein to do whatever they so desire -- to whomever they so desire.  That means they’re free to _rape_ and _murder_ their own common folk.  They believed they were free to do that to our people as well.  More so, because a Fereldan commoner was worth even less in their eyes than their own people.  I saw horrible things done to people I knew, for reasons I never could fathom.”

 

“So it’s not the people that are the problem, it’s the society.”

 

“Whatever it is, it needs to _end.”_

 

“Hissrada.”

 

“What?”

 

“My real name.  Designation, whatever.  There are no names under the Qun, just… jobs, titles… things we do.  Mine means ‘liar.’  What does yours mean?”

 

“I don’t believe my name has any meaning, beyond the fact that it was my great-grandfather’s name.  Why do people from other cultures always ask what your name means?”

 

“I don’t know.  ‘Loghaina’ just sounds kind of weird and… special, like it would mean something.  Have you ever had a nickname?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oo.  I’ll have to come up with one for you.  Probably something to do with a dragon, because I think you’re definitely a fire-breather.”

 

“I don’t like nicknames.”

 

 _“I_ do.  _Everyone_ under the Qun has a nickname.  We have to.  Our names when we’re kids are just numbers.”

 

“I don’t like nicknames.”

 

“Too bad, Mama Dragon.  Say, can I bring my Rams along on this mission?  They’re a great bunch of knuckle-knobs.  You wouldn’t regret it.”

 

“You didn’t sign them up for the competition.”

 

“It didn’t say I had to.  I figured I’d do enough to impress all by myself.”

 

Loghaina thought.  “Your _best._ Only your _best._  But yes, you may bring your Rams along.”


	2. Cream of the Crop

The chosen from the melees gathered in the Landsmeet chamber.  Fergie Cousland corralled her rambunctious younger brother, who was giving the eye to a few too many of the women in the crowd.  “Briefing first, Elijah, and then you can worry about… briefs.”  The Iron Ewe ushered in her Rams, but held them to the back of the chamber.  “You’ll get a good enough view from here, guys,” she said.

 

“Yeah, maybe _you_ will,” the dwarven woman among them said.  “You guys are tall.”

 

“You wanna stand on my shoulders, Rocksy?” The Ewe said.

 

“Thanks, I’m good, boss,” the dwarf said.

 

The Queen came out onto the balcony above wearing a red silk gown trimmed in gold taffeta.  “Wish I had the hips to pull off something like that,” Cremisius “Crème” Aclassi said, right at the moment that Loghaina Mac Tir moved into place to stand about one foot in front of the queen with her arms folded over her chest and her body encased in massive armor blocking most of the view of the pretty monarch.

 

“Yeah, Creamy.  She’s got a _great_ shape,” The Ewe said, with an eye roll.

 

“I didn’t mean the steel-built _High Dragon,”_ Crème said.  “I meant the Queen.”

 

“I’m pretty sure that armor is _silverite,”_ The Ewe said.  “And you’re right, Creamy, you just ain’t got the hips for a gown like that.”

 

“Eat dirt, Chief,” Crème said.

 

“Hey, _I_ couldn’t pull that off, either, and I’ve got boobs from here to Rialto Bay.  Luck of the draw, Creamy.  Luck of the draw.”

 

“That and all the scars, Chief.  Plus the missing eye.”

 

“Yeah, Cream.  That, too.  Creamy?”

 

“What, Chief?”

 

“You know, your lady armor is pretty short.  I hope it never flips up in front.  That’s a buffalo shot no one wants to see.”

 

Eat _shit,_ Chief.”

 

The Ewe laughed and clapped Crème on the back so hard she staggered.  “Listen to the Queen, Fish-Breath.”

 

The Royal Lady did not step out from behind the scowling teyrna, but she addressed the crowd with grandeur and a shining smile regardless.  “Warriors, mages, rogues.  We need your services, not for the sake of Ferelden, but for the sake of Thedas itself.  For the sake of Ferelden, Orlais --”  Here the teyrna snorted loudly, and interrupted Her Majesty.  She repeated herself, with a stern green gaze at the back of her friend’s dark head.  _“--Orlais,_ the Free Marches, Nevarra, Rivain, Antiva, Par Vollen, Tevinter, and the Anderfels.  The problem, good people, is that they do not know this, and if we were to tell them… they would not believe us.”

 

“I’m having a hard time believin’ it me _self,”_ a bowl-cut blond-headed elven man said, adopting a cocked-hip stance with his arms crossed over his narrow chest.

 

The Queen went on regardless of grumbles.  “We have received intelligence from a source we are not willing to gainsay.  This source tells us that a paradox has occurred at the southern edge of our kingdom.  A paradox, simply put, is a twist in the fabric of time and space that creates a disturbance in our plane of existence that must be put right or it will create massive destruction on an unparalleled scale.  This paradox is growing, and it will not stop until it swallows the world.”

 

“Well how are a bunch of _sword-swingers_ supposed to stop something like that?” someone, a blonde-haired young templar recruit who looked quite a bit like the Queen herself asked very loudly, raising her hands in bewilderment.  _“A twist in time and space?  A disturbance in our plane of existence?”_

 

The Teyrna spoke, grunting her words out gruffly but loud enough for all to hear.  “We go to the south.  We find this ‘rift’ in time we were told about.  We kill everything that’s pouring out of it from this other plane of existence.  We find the paradox on our plane and we shove it back through the rift to where it belongs.  Then… the guy who told us about the rift in the first place seals it.  End of story.”

 

“How will we know this ‘paradox’ when we see it?” a dark-skinned, smooth-headed man, tall and stately in elegant Orlesian mage robes, asked from the floor.  “I understand the concept -- it’s something that doesn’t belong here.  But that could still apply to nearly anything.”

 

“Our… informant says we’ll know it when we see it,” Loghaina said.

 

“Who is this ‘informant?’  Why won’t you name him?  You’re being awfully secretive,” the well-dressed mage said.

 

Loghaina turned halfway to give the Queen a look.  Queen Marica stepped forward and smiled over the crowd.  “It is no secret, it is only that most of you have probably never heard of him, though he has some notoriety here in Ferelden.  Fleming, the Warlock of the Wilds.”

 

 _“Fleming?”_ Elijah Cousland said, wrinkling his nose.  “You get your information from a _myth,_ Your Majesty?”  His sister jostled him roughly.

 

A bolt of lightning shot down from nowhere, scattering the assembled.  A tall man in dragonscale robes with raven-feather pauldrons, his long white hair swept back into what looked like dragon horns, appeared among them, yellow eyes cold and piercing.  “Do I look like a myth, Ser Cousland?” he asked.  “Would anyone else like to postulate that I do not exist?”

 

More grumbling and nervous muttering from the crowd.  The elegant mage man tossed his smooth-shaven head.  “A mage of great power, surely, but you _needn’t_ be mythical.  What proof does anyone have that you are this… ‘Fleming?’”

 

“The Queen’s word,” Loghaina barked from the balcony.  “That is all the proof you require.”

 

“Why, of all the insufferable --” the smooth-headed mage began, but Fleming held up a hand to silence him.

 

“You’d better keep silent and not anger her.  You wouldn’t like the Mac Tir when she is angered,” he said, with a thin, superior sort of smile.

 

“What is she now?  She certainly doesn’t look happy.  She doesn’t even look female.”

 

“That?  That’s her _happy_ face.  You don’t want to see her _angry_ face,” the warlock said.  “Her eyes turn red, she breathes blue flame, and she transforms into a creature ugly and baleful enough to turn a man into stone at a glance.”  He laughed a high, unpleasant laugh.

 

“You’d better fucking believe it, too,” the Teyrna said.

 

“So I suppose _you’d_ be the one to ask for all our remaining Paradox-mystery questions,” a black-haired lady mage in Tevinter robes said, looking at Fleming.

 

Fleming gestured at the balcony.  “I rather think the Lady and Her Majesty explained it fairly clearly.”

 

“Except for the whole ‘What is this paradox?’ thing,” the woman said.

 

“It’s not really a thing, actually,” Flemeth said.  “It is a person.  That’s why you’ll know it when you’ll see it.  It doesn’t belong here.  It doesn’t actually belong on the other side of the rift, either, but I know where to put it when we find it.”

 

“And why can’t you do that on your own?” the smooth-headed man said.

 

“Because that person is too powerful for me alone,” Fleming said.  “That, and all the monsters pouring through the rift from the other realm, too fast and too furious to push back through by magic.  They must be destroyed, lest they take over our world and destroy it completely.  They act something like miniature paradoxes in and of themselves, but there isn’t anything like them here to create a space-time disturbance, only the standard ecological disturbance caused by there being no natural predators for them.  That is why _all_ of you are needed.”

 

A bald-headed elven woman stepped out of the shadows in the back corner of the chamber.  “I begin to understand,” she said.  “This paradox -- this _person_ from another realm -- exists here already.  That is where the paradox comes into play.”

 

Fleming gave her a look very cold and very hard.  “Indeed.  You stated it very clearly and concisely, Milady Sola.”

 

“You know my name,” the woman said.  “But then… I am not surprised, if you are in fact the Fleming of legend.”

 

“I know all your names.  I know much about all of you.  But then, you know much about me, as well, don’t you, Milady Sola?”

 

“I am familiar with the legend, yes.”  Fleming smiled that thin, superior smile at Sola, and Sola only smiled a similar narrow-eyed smile in return.

 

“Did you ever feel like everyone else knows what’s going on, but you only know a _small part_ of the story?” the dark-haired Tevinter woman said.

 

The Teyrna stepped to the balcony rail and slammed both gauntlets down hard upon it.  The sound rang throughout the chamber.  “All right.  You all know the deal, now.  You’ve heard what’s what.  The only thing you really need to know from here is that this _rift_ might not be the only one.  If we don’t get to it and close it quick, more might open up, all over Thedas.  We might be traveling some distance.  So make sure you bring your comfortable boots if you’re coming along.  We’re not providing horses for any of you.”

 

“I thought you wanted to get there quickly, before this thing spreads?” Felix Hawke shouted from the back of the crowd.

 

“We do.  But we’ll get there faster walking than by teaching half of you how to ride,” the Teyrna said.  “Besides, it would take up an unconscionable number of the Crown’s horses to mount you all.  The army needs them while we’re gone, in case of trouble.”

 

“What kind of trouble are you expecting, Your Ladyship?” Arlessa Howe, not one of the contenders but present nevertheless, asked.

 

“I’m _always_ expecting trouble.  That’s why there hasn’t been any lately,” the Teyrna said.

 

“While you are off supervising this quest, Milady Teyrna, who will be looking out for the nation?” Howe said.

 

“It’s _Queen,_ as always,” the Teyrna said.

 

“Really?  I was under the impression she was going along with you.  That is what she _said.”_

 

The Teyrna spun to face the Queen.  She snarled.  _“Marica.”_

 

The Queen shrugged.  “What?  I haven’t had an adventure in twenty years!  You can’t have _all_ the fun, you know.  What do the kids call that?  Bogarting?”

 

The Teyrna grabbed the Queen by the shoulder and dragged her through the doorway into the next room, slamming the door behind them.  “Marica.  You _cannot_ come with us!”

 

“Why not?  Cailene can take care of the nation in my absence.  Anoro can help her.  It’ll be a good start for them.  Get their beaks wet, so to speak.”

 

 _“Cailene_ is not mature enough to take care of an entire _country.”_

 

“What’s wrong with Cailene?  Are you misogynist or something?”

 

Loghaina gave her a very dirty look.  “Marica.  I’m a woman.  You’re a woman.  You cannot look me in the eye and honestly accuse me of being misogynistic.  It’s Cailene.  You raised her to believe in fairy tales, and now she believes she’s a fairy tale princess and all must bow to her and her _spun sugar fantasies_.  She’s a little girl trapped in a woman’s body and she will never, _ever_ grow up, Marica.  I’m scared to _death_ of the day she takes the throne, Marica.  I mean that.”

 

“Anoro will be there by her side.”

 

“My one small consolation.  But Anoro won’t rule alone, and Cailene may be juvenile, but she’s also stubborn as a mule.  Do you really believe that Anoro will have the power to rein her in when she gets some crackpot idea in her head?”

 

“Ruling is a difficult thing, my friend.  It may actually mature her.  I know you believe that _impossible.”_

 

“Oh _bosh._ That girl knows nothing of the real world and never shall.  _You_ saw to that.”

 

“Yes.  It is all my fault.  _Everything_ is always my fault.”

 

“She’s _your_ daughter.  You should have seen to it she had a little _practical_ education.  But I get it.  You didn’t want her touched by the horrors we had to face.  I _understand,_ Marica, don’t think that I don’t.  But you didn’t do this nation any favors by coddling your child this way.”

 

“And what about you?  What about Anoro?  Did you do _him_ any favors, beefing him up and then tearing him down?  You didn’t even let him enter the competition.”

 

“I don’t _tear_ my son down.”

 

“You don’t exactly let him spread his wings, either.”

 

“How can I?  He’s going to be _King._ By _your_ wishes, not my own.”

 

“You signed the marriage contract, my friend.  Don’t try to weasel out of it now.”

 

“I know.  I wish to the _Maker_ I hadn’t.  I took my son’s future out of his hands, just like my father took mine away from me when he sent me away with you.”

 

“Do you regret that?”

 

“Every time I’m up all night signing off on endless writs of petition.  Which is every night.”

 

“I’m coming along.  Cailene and Anoro can handle things while we’re gone.”

 

“Queens don’t go haring off on mad quests to save the world.  They let their underlings like me do that for them.  That’s what we’re _for,_ dammit!”

 

“Oh, flibbertigibbet!” Marica swore.  Loghaina was taken aback.

 

“Flibbertigibbet?” she said.  “Marica, what in the Void?  Nobody ever says ‘flibbertigibbet.’  Where’d you come up with _that_ stinkburger?”

 

“Queens can’t swear.”

 

“Flibbertigibbet _is_ swearing.  Really… _weak_ swearing.  Really, you’d be much better off not to say anything at all.”

 

“I’m coming along.”

 

“You know, Marica, I really hate you sometimes.”

 

“I’m coming.  You can’t do anything about it.”

 

“I could stuff you in a locked wardrobe.”

 

“I’d chop off your head.”

 

“Really _fucking_ hate you, sometimes.”

 

“Our public awaits.”

 

“Really _fucking_ hate you.”

 

“I love you too, my friend.  Now be a good girl, and let’s announce our plans.”  Growling, the Teyrna led the way back onto the balcony.


End file.
